Dead by Any Other Name (19 page)

fifty

In the late nineteenth
century, before cars were invented and travel became a breeze, a lot of fancy families in cities like New York, Philadelphia, and Boston packed up—servants and all—and went away for the whole summer. They liked to build rambling old summer places near each other so they'd have folks of their own class to hang out with. In the Catskills there are several “parks” that date from that era, enclaves created when groups of like-minded families got together and bought big chunks of land, then each took a piece and built a “cottage” on it.

Elka Park is a lot of huge old clapboard houses next to each other in the middle of nowhere. I always get a kick out of driving through it, the history is palpable and the houses are pretty wowing—massive porches, turrets and gables and dormers. Twenty-five years ago you could pick one up for a song, nowadays they're pretty expensive. It didn't surprise me that Howard Wolfson would have a friend there—Elka Park is emblematic of the new Catskills chic.

The next evening I headed up the Platte Clove Road, past the trail head that led to the spot where Natasha was murdered, and on the few miles to Elka Park. I found the house where Howard Wolfson asked me to meet him, it was an immense Queen Anne in such groomed and immaculate condition that it looked like it had been airlifted in from Disney World. I parked and knocked on the door. An attractive youthful woman I pegged as somewhere in her botoxed late thirties answered and gave me a big showbiz smile, I thought I vaguely recognized her, maybe from one of those determinedly upbeat daytime television shows that all blend together into a cozy/creepy blur.

“You must be Janet,” she said, her delivery a little sly, a touch of irony slipping out from behind the perky mask.

“I am, yes.”

She didn't introduce herself, so maybe she was some kind of semi-celeb and she assumed I recognized her.

Or maybe she was just a bitch.

She took a step out onto the front porch and looked around in an exaggerated way. “You haven't seen a stalker around, have you? Blonde, a little jowly, driving a silver Mercedes?” I shook my head. “Oh, that's right, she's out in LA, being ghoulish. Type casting.” She stepped back into the house and called, “Howard, that woman is here.”

I was leaning toward bitch.

Howard Wolfson appeared. He looked a lot more relaxed than he had at the memorial. In fact he looked rested, handsome, and a little studly in a blue denim workshirt and khakis.

“Hurry back, darling,” the woman said, putting a hand on his chest in a proprietary way and giving him a little kiss.

The other woman—younger and more attractive than Sally—but not a bimbo, which in some ways must be making it even harder. A bimbo can be dismissed as a man thinking with his dick. With a peer, things get more complicated. And poor Sally, her jealousy had driven her to stalk her rival—although from the looks of things the contest was over and a winner had been declared.

Just as we set off for Platte Clove, my cell rang. It was Josie.

“Hi, honey, is everything okay?”

“I just discovered something on the Internet that I think you'll find
very
interesting,” she said.

“I can't wait to hear it, but this isn't a good time. I'll be back in about an hour.”

We drove in silence for a few minutes and then Howard said, “This isn't going to be easy for me.”

“How are you doing with it all?”

“I've learned something from Natasha's death. Which is just how truly selfish I am. I was a lousy parent. Being a dad didn't really interest me much. Natasha paid a price for that.”

“Julia told me you adopted her.”

He looked over at me. “She did, did she?”

“Yes, and that you were overly affectionate with her.”

He laughed, incredulous. “That's ridiculous. I didn't have much time for Julia, so she imagined I was lavishing all my attention on Natasha and she was jealous. Natasha
was an adorable kid. But overly affectionate? No way.”

“Apparently Natasha felt you were. That's what she told Julia.”

He exhaled in exasperation, “Oh Christ! Like I need this. Believe me, I'm no saint but nothing happened. You know, kids conflate things. I'm really sorry Natasha felt that way. This all adds up to more guilt for me. And, as you may have realized, other aspects of my life are somewhat complicated these days.”

I knew he was right that sometimes children, when they grow older, look back at innocent adult affection and sexualize it. It's a tricky, complicated gray area but Howard's response made me think he was telling the truth.

“How's the book coming?” I asked.

His demeanor changed, a faux-grave expression came over him, he clasped his hands together in his lap, and his voice grew emotional and Bill Clintony. “It's coming well, thank you for asking. We're working on the take-away; we want to help our readers move past the traumas in their own lives. And visiting the place where Natasha died will help me with the closure I need. Nothing will bring her back. I know she would want me to move on, to put this tragedy behind me.”

Did he really believe that pabulum? It was like he went from real to superficial a-hole in the blink of an eye. In either mode, it was clear that his daughter's death was first and foremost a career opportunity.

We reached the trailhead parking area, which was empty. We got out of the car. It was quiet, except for the wind rustling the tops of the trees, and the air was chill in the rock-cleaved clove, this untamed landscape, capable of claiming a human life in the blink of an eye.

I led Howard down the trail; we could hear the rushing water but couldn't see it yet. The path wound down and around an increasingly steep slope, the ground was covered with pine needles and it was easy to see how someone could slip and then start to slide and be unable to stop themselves, their downward momentum growing with each inch, until they reached the edge and went over. I didn't like this place.

We reached the spot where Natasha spent her last moments alive. From here you could look down into the gorge and see the rushing torrent, the waterfall, and the pool surrounded by large rocks. I gripped a nearby tree.

“This is it,” I said.

Howard stood there, lost in thought. It was hard to read the expression on his face, then he surprised me with a heartfelt, almost inaudible, “Poor Natasha.”

We stood in silence for what seemed like a long time. Then we turned and headed back up the trail.

“You know she was on a lot of drugs those last months,” I said as we walked.

“I suspected as much. Do you think it was heroin?”

“I know what it was, and so do you.”

“What do you mean?”

“She was on oxycodone, Vicodin, Adderall, and a few others.”

“Where was she getting them?”

“From you.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Howard, I've got proof.”

“Proof of what? What the hell are you talking about?”

I pulled out the oxycodone bottle and handed it to him. He studied it.

“I didn't prescribe this. Who the hell is Collier Denton?”

“Don't play cute with me.”

“Don't
you
play cute with
me
.”

“You expect me to believe you didn't write this scrip?”

“You're goddamn right I do. If this is your idea of a joke, it's not funny. Were you put up to this by that crazy wife of mine? Bringing me down here and then springing this on me.”

He pulled out his iPhone and ran his finger over it. “This scrip was written on May 11th. I was traveling from May 8th to the 14th.” He held the phone out to me, “Here's my calendar. I was in San Antonio, Phoenix, and Seattle.”

I didn't have to look at the evidence. I knew this guy was telling the truth.

fifty-one

I delivered Howard back
to his mistress and headed down to Sawyerville, eager to find out what Josie had discovered. Things were coming together quickly—Sally Wolfson had to have been the source of the pills that greased her daughter's slide—but there was still one unanswered question: what was the connection between Sally Wolfson and Collier Denton?

When I got back to Sawyerville, I headed over to Abba's. I was exhausted but energized and ravenously hungry. The place was pretty crowded and I saw Abba and Josie hard at work in the kitchen so I sat at the counter, out of their hair. Pearl shambled over.

“I'll have the special,” I said, nodding toward the daily chalkboard—Fish Tacos.

Pearl brought her pencil to her lips, moistened it and began to write.

“How do you like the new addition?” I asked, indicating Josie.

Pearl looked up at me and a smile slowly spread across her face.

Josie's face appeared in the pass-through, “Order up, Pearl. Hey, Janet, I'll be out in a minute.” Pearl actually stepped almost-lively as she went to pick up the plates. The times they are a-changin'.

Josie came out from the kitchen and sat on the stool next to mine. She was carrying her laptop, which she opened and put in front of me.

“Look at this,” she said, indicating the screen. “It's an interview with Collier Denton that was in
Variety
. The dateline on the article is April 11, 1979, which is the same day that Ian Stock's house burned down.”

I scanned the interview; the angle was the plight of the understudy. Denton was understudying Frank Langella in
Dracula
and it was his fourth Broadway understudy gig. The reporter noted that Denton arrived late for the interview but was full of nervous energy, even exuberant. Then I saw the byline: Sally Cleary.

I pulled out my cell and called Chevrona Williams to tell her
I'd pick her up at her barracks tomorrow at five for the drive down
to Cold Spring.

I signed off with, “Bring handcuffs.”

fifty-two

“So what's all this
about?” Chevrona asked as we sped down the thruway.

I ran her through the whole scenario. She listened thoughtfully.

“I'm not saying it didn't go down that way. But the only piece of evidence you have is one prescription bottle. The rest is circumstantial. Those e-mails are powerful evidence for the defense. And Sally Wolfson is pretty damn sympathetic, not to mention being the victim's mother. I just don't see the DA taking this case.”

“You're the one who said we need a confession.”

“And you really think you can get one?”

“I'm going to try my best.”

I'd given some thought to my timing. Sally had arrived home from her trip to LA in the early afternoon. She'd be tired and want to relax, hopefully with a cocktail, but she'd also be unsettled because she isn't sure what her husband has been up to while she's been away. All in all, in a vulnerable place. And I had a big fat bluff planned.

We arrived at the Wolfsons' house and parked. A middle-aged housekeeper opened the front door.

“Hi, we're here to see Sally, she's expecting us,” I lied casually.

The woman smiled and ushered us in.

We walked into the living room to find the Wolfsons sitting on separate couches; sitting on a chair was a thin middle-aged woman in a black dress, her black hair in a chic angular cut; she radiated intelligence and purpose, held a yellow legal pad. It didn't look like a social visit.

Both Howard and Sally stood up when they saw us, their faces registering varying levels of surprise, annoyance, and trepidation.

“I'm sorry to interrupt, but this is important,” I said. “This is Detective Chevrona Williams of the New York State police.”

No one said anything and the chic woman looked from one Wolfson to the other. Finally Howard walked over to us and said, “This isn't the best time.”

“It may not be the best time, but it's
the
time,” I said. I walked over to the chic woman and extended my hand, “Hi, I'm Janet Petrocelli, a friend of Natasha Wolfson.”

She looked at my outstretched hand for a moment and then shook it, “Enid Pearlman, I'm Howard and Sally's editor.”

“On
Lost Child
?” I asked.

“Yes. It's brilliant. We're planning an enormous push. They're already booked on
60 Minutes
and
The View
.”

“You may want to rethink that.”

Sally gathered herself and said, “This is all very fascinating I'm sure, but we're in the middle of an editorial meeting.”

“I'm here to talk about Natasha, I have some important information about her death. I think all three of you will be interested in hearing it.”

“Well, I certainly am,” Enid Pearlman said. She turned to the Wolfsons, “It may be germane to the book.”

Howard seemed to resign himself and sat back down; Sally remained standing. I looked right at her.

“Life hasn't been easy for you, has it, Sally?” I turned to Enid. “Did you know that Sally's mother was diagnosed with schizophrenia when Sally was five? Sally's childhood was spent watching her mother get sicker and sicker and finally commit suicide when Sally was fifteen.”

“I had no idea,” Enid said, looking sympathetically at Sally.

“Imagine how sad and terrifying that must have been? A young girl loves her mother, and needs her mother to love her back. And Sally's mom was lost in a fog of madness and thorazine; their home life was chaos, Sally was teased at school. What child wouldn't be ashamed and angry to have a crazy mother?” I took a step toward Sally. “I'm sorry you had to go through that.”

The room was very quiet. Sally's mouth was open.

“You got out of that house as fast as you could, your terrific grades got you a scholarship at Sarah Lawrence. You erased your family, erased the grief and pain. But then you got pregnant with Natasha. Her birth was traumatic, wasn't it? You were angry with yourself for waiting too long to abort her, and angry with her for being born. When you looked at her all you saw was the end of your freedom and dreams. But you were tough and smart and, boy, were you determined. You parked Natasha with your dad and you soldiered on. You got your journalism degree, had a few jobs, but there was very little money and an ambitious girl needs money, money for nice clothes, good haircuts, good restaurants, entrée to places where you meet nice people, nice men. And so you got some money. It took a little blackmail, but what the hell. And then you met Howard, and he was wealthy and successful, and you married him. Then you wrote your first book together and you became famous. Howard adopted Natasha and then you had Julia.”

Sally marshaled herself, ran her fingers through her hair, gave me a slightly bemused, pitying look, trying hard to gain control of the situation. “This is
not
germane to the book. It's old history and I think we've heard quite enough of it.” She began to move toward me.

Chevrona stopped her with, “Let's just let Janet finish.”

“You gave your daughters a privileged childhood and you
went through the motions of being a mother, but it never felt real
because underneath you just didn't love them. In fact you were
bitterly jealous of them—jealous of their privilege and jealous
because they were
young
. Their future was your past. And so you undermined them, nothing they did was ever good enough. But they were pretty and they were talented and you
hated
them for it. In fact, when we get right down to it, you hated Natasha from the day she was born.”

The room was absolutely still.

“Mini crabcakes?” We all turned to see the housekeeper standing in the doorway holding a tray. The vibe hit her, her face fell and she added in a small hopeful voice, “With my horseradish sauce?”

“Not now, Janice,” Howard said
sotto voce
.

Janice retreated.

Sally used the interruption to try to regain her equilibrium. “Your amateur psychologizing is fascinating but alas all wrong. I didn't hate Natasha, I loved her, she was my child, my baby,” she said.

“One of your early assignments as a journalist has played an important part in your life, hasn't it, Sally? Do you remember? Sunday, April 11, 1979? You were twenty-one years old and living hand-to-mouth when you got that assignment from
Variety
to interview the actor Collier Denton. He seemed manic and you saw his burn and then you heard about the fire that had killed Ian Stock and you put two and two together and it added up to an opportunity for little Sally Cleary to move one step closer to the golden ring. So you cased Stock's house and you found the evidence you needed and you blackmailed Collier Denton, demanded money, and you've continued to blackmail him ever since. Last spring, after forging your husband's signature on the
scrips, you blackmailed Denton to get those pills to Natash
a because your marriage was coming apart and your career was on the downswing and you saw a hit book as a way to get your husband back and the limelight back, and the one thing standing in your way was Natasha. You can't have a lost child if she's found herself.”

“No!” Sally cried, “The pills were to
help
her. She needed help, she was in trouble. I tried so hard to help her, I sent her e-mails, I called her, I told her again and again how much I loved her.”

“I've read those e-mails and underneath the pabulum and bromides, they were undermining, filled with passive aggression. As for the drugs, you knew about her history of abuse, you knew she couldn't handle drugs. But you wanted her dead, you
needed
her dead.”

Sally's breathing had grown shallow and a look of panic had taken hold. “This is bullshit, fucking bullshit, you get out of my house!”

“And you knew your husband's latest affair had grown serious and it was driving you around the bend. So you started stalking the other woman's house up in Elka Park and two weeks ago it all came to a head, you were at the end of your rope, driving around Elka Park like a crazy woman, like your mother! And so you called Natasha and asked her to drive up and meet you—”

“Because I wanted to
help
her!”

“You may actually have deluded yourself into believing that. And you suggested a walk, a nature walk, down that trail, that trail above the waterfall—”

“And she started to argue with me, to accuse me of things, terrible things.”

“True things. She told you
the truth
. And so you pushed her.”

Sally looked around wildly, a trapped animal, and then she began to race around the room, almost like she was looking for places to hide, clenching and unclenching her fists, then she ran over to a long shelf that held a vase, sculptures, framed photos, and raked her arm across it, sending everything flying, crashing, shattering. Then she turned back to us and looked from person to person—I saw madness in her eyes, the abyss and she was falling—and she started to sob and slowly crumpled to the floor, her face melting and blubbery, her body heaving, wracked.

It was hard to watch but I couldn't stop now, I needed her to say the words. She had to pay for what she did, that's the deal.

I walked over and stood above her.

“You killed Natasha, didn't you?”

“I wanted to help her, I just wanted to help her, but she yelled at me, she was mean to me.”

Like the sick narcissist she was, even now she saw
herself
as the victim. Whatever tinge of sympathy I'd felt evaporated.

“You killed her, say it!”

She looked up at me and bared her teeth and growled, “Yes, I fucking killed her, I pushed her and watched her fall and her head smashed into the rocks and I felt
nothing!
Nothing but
triumph!
”

Chevrona pulled out her handcuffs.